


The Taste Of Rock And Scald

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-26
Updated: 2008-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:32:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it wasn't like nothing had ever happened back in the Dark Ages Before Jon, but Brendon can remember a lot of awkwardness; long silent periods and fights and even longer periods, months, where they just pretended that whatever happened hadn't. When they stole Jon from the Academy's clutches, though, everything fell into place; Jon was awesome, they all agreed on that, and <i>Jon</i> thought it was totally okay to make out, or jerk each other off a little. If Jon though it was okay, that guys could do that with each other, that was cool, that was fine.</p><p>That was all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste Of Rock And Scald

"Shotgun," Spencer says immediately, before Brendon even has a chance to open his mouth, which really doesn't happen all that often. "Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun."

Brendon makes a piteous noise, but Zack just shrugs his shoulders, all _what can you do?_ "Fair call," he says, and tosses Spencer the second room key.

Brendon and Jon's heads turn from right to left as they watch the little plastic card curve in a smooth arc through the air, and land with a faint smack in the very centre of Spencer's cupped palms.

"Who's the man," Zack asks complacently. "He shoots, he scores, oh yeah."

"I just want it known that I think favouritism is totally at play here," Brendon announces, pitching his voice dramatically to the hotel foyer at large. "Don't even lie to me, Zack, you're on the take." His tone turns melancholy. "While my back's been turned, Spencer's been slipping you Strawberry Surf Riders, hasn't he? I see. I see how it is."

Spencer just slings his duffel over his shoulder and smirks a little at his feet. "You're ranty and delusional," he says, and flashes a grin back over his shoulder when he walks off towards the elevator, bright and wide and totally, totally taunting.

"Also, overinvested in smoothie flavours," Jon adds mildly.

"Don't underestimate the power of the smoothie," Brendon tells him, and then widens his eyes. "You should be on my side here," he says. "Seriously. Zack, hey. Tell me what Spencer's paying you and I'll double it next time there's an extra room free. Seriously. _Seriously_."

"I'm a man of honor," Zack says, folding his arms and looking insulted by Brendon's suggestion. "When someone bribes me, I stay bribed."

"A man of real honor doesn't accept bribes in the first place," Brendon starts, mouth opening to complain further, but Jon reaches over and plucks the last key out of Zack's hand, then squeezes Brendon's shoulder.

"Come on, roomie," he says, and squeezes meaningfully again.

-

"Clink," Jon demands, and the necks of their beer bottles make a chiming noise like a flat, tinny bell when they knock them together. It's Brendon's third beer already and he can feel the lazy warmth spreading from the pit of his stomach, winding its way pleasantly through his veins, threading through his capillaries.

"Stop bogarting," he says, instead of telling Jon for the eighth time that he totally takes it back, rooming with him is awesome. "C'mon." He butts his forehead against Jon's shoulder until Jon hands him the joint they've been passing lazily back and forth, in between slugs of beer and commentary on whatever stupid baseball game's blaring on the tv. He's not really paying attention to it, even when Jon's hand, now free, comes to rest on his knee.

  
"Mmm," Brendon says comfortably, taking another slow drag on the joint. Jon's hand slides further up the inside of his thigh, warmth and faint, suggestive pressure. He can feel his pulse beating in every cell. "We have all night, dude. You want me to pinch this off?"

"Eventually," Jon says. "Like you say, we've got all night. And the game's on."

"I don't really care about the game," Brendon says confidingly. "Shocking, but true."

Brendon kind of loves nights like this, whether it's Jon or Spencer or Ryan. It's not always – it's not even often – but the messing around they do sometimes is fun; nothing serious, no harm, no foul. Casual stuff. Buddy stuff, although there's probably more making out than really makes sense in the buddy-rationale scheme of things, for which Brendon thanks Jon, a lot and frequently. Jon is really, really into making out, even more than Brendon is (was. He's a convert).

He gives silent thanks to Jon a lot, really. Okay, it wasn't like nothing had ever happened back in the Dark Ages Before Jon, but Brendon can remember a lot of awkwardness; long silent periods and fights and even longer periods, months, where they just pretended that whatever happened hadn't. When they stole Jon from the Academy's clutches, though, everything fell into place; Jon was awesome, they all agreed on that, and _Jon_ thought it was totally okay to make out, or jerk each other off a little. If Jon though it was okay, that guys could do that with each other, that was cool, that was fine.

That was all.

"I hate you," Brendon tells him cordially when Jon successfully reclaims the joint.

"Yeah, you don't," Jon says, petting his head. "Shut up and watch the game."

"The game is boring."

"The game is not boring," Jon corrects him. "Brewers and Sox, that's like." He waves the hand holding his beer in the air. "Okay, it might be a foregone conclusion, but it's still fun to watch."

Brendon takes advantage of his rhapsodizing to take the joint back into his protective custody. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Jon affirms, hand coming to rest in Brendon's lap. "See, that dude – no, that one – not the one that's got to get round the bases before _that_ dude- if he gets that guy out, it'll be the four-thousandth-and-sixty-third strike of his career, which will put him up there on the all-times. Don't tell me that's boring."

"How do you know these things, Jon Walker?" Brendon asks, settling his thighs apart a little. "Is it magic?"

"Yes," Jon agrees solemnly. "Also the announcer just said so."

"Magic," Brendon nods, settling back.

Jon keeps up the commentary in Brendon's ear as he unzips his fly and slides his hand into his pants, and Brendon arches up into the touch. "Runners on first and third, one out, high fastball to the inside corner," Jon mutters, thumb rubbing in a slow, obscene way. "Runner on first looks like he's gonna try to steal."

"Uh-huh," Brendon manages, pressing his forehead against Jon's shoulder. It comes out a little breathless, like he really cares about what's happening in the game, and not what's happening in his pants.

Jon's good, it's really fucking good, and the bare patch of skin on Brendon's back where his jeans and t-shirt don't quite meet is rubbing against the carpet. His beer's cold against his palm. Jon's fingers are moving lazily and skilfully, and the low burr of his voice is smooth and rough at the same time, like Kahlua on ice. None of it's really quite enough.

"- swing and a miss, but look, see, there he goes to second-"

The thing is, Brendon thinks about doing more than the others have ever been willing to do. Sometimes. Mostly when he's jerking off, or when someone – it doesn't even have to be one of them, it can be a girl he's picked up – is getting him off. He knows he probably shouldn't want that, but he does, nevertheless. It sucks that Ryan will jerk him off or Spencer will blow him and Jon has no problems with either, but anything more, that's where they draw the line? It's not even so much that he wants to do it to them. Half the time he thinks about it, he wants them to do it to _him._ And, yeah. He definitely shouldn't want that.

"The catcher is late with the throw and it's not in time, runner is safe at second," Jon says, low and rough against his ear.

"Hey, just a second," Brendon says, pushing his hand away. "I'm just going to pinch this out, okay?"

"It seems like a waste," Jon says, watching him stub out the joint on the edge of his sneaker. "And by 'seems', I mean is."

"It'll keep. I'm making this reciprocal, shut the fuck up."

Brendon puts his beer down carefully. Then he throws a leg over Jon's, straddling his thighs and leaning in to kiss him properly. Jon tastes like the special brown ale he always asks for on his rider, and his short stubble is rough and plush, making the edges of Brendon's lips burn. Jon's hands settle, steadying, on his hips.

"I really don't give a fuck about baseball," Brendon says, laughing under his breath at the exaggeratedly sad-eyed, sad-mouthed look Jon shoots him reproachfully. "Come on, this is so much more fun," he says, rocking up against the shape of Jon's cock through his jeans for emphasis and grinning at the purring little noise of approval Jon makes low in his chest. He likes that noise so he does it again, then again, until Jon's gasping and grinding back a little bit desperately.

It seems like a good time to whisper into Jon's ear, and Brendon's kind of desperate himself just at that second, clearly not at all in his right mind. "I was thinking about something different," he says, and Jon makes a little interrogative sound that Brendon takes as encouragement. "Like. I've been thinking, and it could be fun, you know? Maybe you could - maybe you could fuck me."

He says it fast, the words tripping out over his tongue. He's pretty sure it's a mistake when Jon goes still under him, and stops kissing his jaw. For a moment all Brendon can hear is the sound of Jon's ragged breathing as he tries to get his lungs under control, and he has a moment to hate himself pretty desperately. Saying that – it's crossed the line and. It could mean he doesn't even get the fooling around any more. It could mean that Jon - that all of them - are going to think that he's. That he's not –

"Uh," Jon says, and Brendon can't read anything into his tone, or into his expression. "Wow."

"Look," he says, pushing the panic away and reaching down to press the heel of his hand against Jon's cock, because fuck it, if he's fucked things up, he might as well go all the way. And it's not like Jon's not hard, or anything. "I just. I just think it could be fun. To try. I think it could be amazing. You know, if you were into it."

He says it slower this time, because the first time it came out rushed and breathless, like he didn't really want Jon to hear what he was saying.

Jon's still staring at him, his eyes round dark moons with irises eclipsed, swallowed up by pupil. He licks his lips. "I don't think. I don't think that's such a good idea, Brendon," he says very carefully, which is _such_ a fucking lie, because Brendon has his hand curled around Jon's cock through his jeans, and it's telling him different. "I'll jerk you off, okay? You can jerk me. That's – that's always a good time."

"Yeah, but I don't _want_ you to jerk me off." This is a lie. Of course he wants Jon to jerk him off, it's just that he's manned up enough to say it, finally, and he kind of can't bear the thought that it's going to be for nothing. He feels flushed and hot and almost angry. The pulse throbbing in his ears isn't a good beat any more.

He pulls his shirt off over his head, and Jon doesn't stop him, but when Brendon slides out of his lap he makes a half-checked grab for him, which for some reason makes Brendon feel angrier.

He remembers to kick his shoes off before he starts to struggle out of his jeans. He stands there for a second, undecided, and then his boxers or come off, too. This is another line, this is new, because they might mess around, all of them, to greater and lesser degrees, but they don't get naked, not properly, because that would be - weird, Brendon guesses.

It's that worry that's making him shiver, more than the cold and his total lack of clothing, more than Jon's eyes resting on him while Jon himself says nothing.

The silence is bad, is good? Brendon's not even sure anymore so he decides just to prattle on like it doesn't matter how enormously this could be blowing up in his face, because that's just what he does. If he can talk enough, sometimes he can make things okay. "Dude, you should get over here and fuck me. That's what I'm thinking about when you're jerking me off or whatever, you know? How fucking good it would be." He bites his lip - that was a little more honest than he meant to be - but Jon swallows, palpably, and that - that's good.

"I didn't know," Jon says softly, then, "I don't know."

"It doesn't have to be - whatever," Brendon says, hands curling and unfolding a little helplessly. "I don't even want that, I promise. Just - fun, you know? Forget all the bullshit and stuff. My ass is pretty hot," he adds, throwing his shoulders back a little. "I'm told so by highly reliable sources. My ass has its own following on myspace."

"I know, I believe you," Jon says, laughing a little and ducking his head, and something in Brendon's stomach loosens up a bit, even if his shoulders are still tense.

"Well?" he asks, far more assured than he feels, and stands there grinning with his hip cocked like he's striking a pose, like if this goes wrong he can still try laughing this off and pretending he was just kidding. Jon's still watching him so closely, eyes flickering, tracing every movement of his mouth, every shift in his expression, every hitch and fall of his sternum. "Seriously. Just _get over here_ , already. I don't know how much longer I can wait for you to make up your mind, dude."

That's a lie, but Brendon shrugs like it's gospel truth and puts his hand on his dick, stroking himself slow and steady and like he's got better things on his mind, looking straight at Jon.

Sometimes he amazes himself by how good his act can be.

"Fuck," Jon says finally, feelingly, and then he's up and off the floor in a controlled burst of motion that Brendon isn't quite prepared for. There's sudden wet and heat against his neck, Jon kissing the side of Brendon's jaw, the corner of his mouth, until he finds Brendon's lips and kisses him properly, hard and with a hint of teeth. Brendon can't breathe, can't think or even feel relieved; he just fists his hands in Jon's shirt and kisses back as hard as he can.

He knew he was working Jon up; he was doing it deliberately, but this is not what he anticipated and it's _awesome_ , and it's even more awesome when they stumble back a few feet, Jon just pushing and pushing forward, kissing him until Brendon feels like he's in freefall, until his shoulders hit the wall behind him. He doesn't even wince at the dull thud as the back of his skull sounds against the drywall, because he has so many better things to think about.

"Pants," Brendon whispers, and has to seriously work on finding Jon's waistband, pushing them down. Jon's no help, his hands flat on the wall on either side of Brendon's head while he mouths at his neck, which is neat – really, really neat – but not exactly helpful with the nakedness. It takes Brendon a few minutes of tugging and getting distracted and kissing back and then remembering the pants problem to get Jon's jeans and boxers shoved down, and it should be funny, right, Jon with his shirt still on and his jeans sliding down his thighs, pinning him up against a wall?

It's not. It's hot, it's _so fucking hot,_ Jon's knee nudging hard and insistent between his thighs while Brendon moans into his mouth and just clutches Jon's broad shoulders. His fingers are pressing so hard into the cotton of Jon's shirt that he's sure that the imperceptible weave of the fabric is going to be branded into his fingertips forever.

"God," Jon's whispering whenever he's not kissing him or pressing his open mouth against Brendon's jaw, neck, the round curve of his shoulder. "God, fuck, god, _Brendon._ "

"Ngh," Brendon manages, and then Jon grabs his leg and forces his knee up high, pressing against his hip, and god, that's a cool move. Brendon admires that move. Brendon can't get his leg to wrap around Jon's waist like this, but he can keep his knee high, hold onto Jon's shoulders even tighter, because now they're practically the only thing keeping him balanced; that and Jon's arm sliding around his waist and the wall behind him.

Just like this, grinding against each other, this is awesome, and Brendon could totally come just like this if Jon just keeps kissing him, keeps him pinned, keeps up the rhythmic roll of his hips; but he doesn't want to.

"Jon," he breathes, pulling away for a second. "Fuck me, come on, _please._ " His voice cracks on the last word and Jon makes a deep guttural noise and kisses him harder, and maybe Brendon should have tried the outright begging earlier. The more you know. "Seriously," he says when he can get his mouth free, "now, now, _please."_

"Condom," Jon says shakily. "Lube."

Brendon moans because fuck, that's way too much work, too much time.

"Just a second," Jon says, low and rough, jerks his head at his bags a few feet away. The light hits the side of his face, turning the top of his smooth brown cheek to gold and his eyes into shadow. His mouth glitters wetly. "Just a second-"

"If you stop now I will fucking kill you," Brendon warns him, but he unfists Jon's shirt and lets him go. He figures it's a calculated risk, and just stands there for a few seconds that take forever, tipping his head back and leaning against the wall because his knees really aren't going to hold him up without help, breathing.

If Jon changes his mind, Brendon is honest to god seriously going to kill him, he decides, staring hazily at the ceiling of their hotel room. Even if he has to stealth attack him in his sleep. The ceiling fan's blades go round and round, a low faint whirring noise in counterpoint to the rustling noises as Jon tears through his bag, and Brendon watches the fan instead of Jon, because if he doesn't look Jon's not going to change his mind.

"I can't find any lube," Jon mutters, and Brendon turns his head even though he really means not to. Jon's crouching over their bags, and he looks honestly distressed and a little frantic, eyes kind of wild, and Brendon concentrates on that, the way his mouth is a little swollen, his hair rucked up and only getting worse as he scrubs his hand through it, frowning. Those aren't the eyes of a guy who's going to change his mind. Hopefully. "These condoms are lubed, but that's not enough, right? Fuck, fu-"

"Oh my god," Brendon says. "I actually don't care. Just. Seriously. Get the fuck over here. And, uh, maybe kick your jeans off properly," he adds, because yeah, it's hot, but it's also a little ridiculous watching Jon hobble around, even if it gives Brendon an amazing view of his ass. If he laughs, he could totally ruin this. And he wants him naked. "Ditch the shirt, too."

Jon obeys; for a second the artificial lamplight shines full on him, broad shoulders and flat belly and the sinful smooth lines of his hipbones, converging irresistibly downwards. He's fumbling with the condom, his quick sharp movements making his shadow on the far wall sputter.

"Got it?" Brendon asks, despite himself, and Jon flicks a glance over to him. Despite the clear light throwing his face into high relief, Brendon can't read his expression at all.

"Yeah," Jon says softly, rolling it on and moving back, and the second he's in range Brendon grabs for his shoulders again, his fingers finally sliding across warm bare skin. He can't help grinding helplessly against the flat of Jon's stomach, blood-warm and smooth and oh, fuck.

Jon kisses him back, and Brendon helpfully tries to wrap one leg around him again, because _yeah._

"This isn't going to work," Jon pants into his ear.

Brendon's stupid with lust and need and skin (Jon smells fucking amazing, aftershave and pot and something underneath that, clean and animal), and it takes him a second to realise what Jon's saying before sick disappointment rolls over him.

"Fuck you," he says. "Just, fuck _you_." He bites hard and vengefully into the fleshy, muscled curve of Jon's shoulder, Jon's cock still sliding jerkily against the thin skin inside his thigh.

Jon makes a sharp, deep noise at the bite, and suddenly Brendon's completely off-balance, the leg he had all his weight resting on wobbling and folding as Jon pushes him away, jerks him around. Brendon's still feeling sick with anger and disappointment and rejection when his chest, the side of his face hit the wall - not hard enough to really hurt after the first second or two of flat shock, just enough to make him hiss, make his cheek throb like it's been slapped.

Jon's knee nudges between his thighs, hard and insistent, and Brendon suddenly realises that 'this isn't going to work' was more about position than anything else, and the realisation is a relief and does something liquid to his stomach, and yeah, he's totally down with this, spreading his legs and arching back.

"Shit," Jon says, pausing, and there's apology and a sort of awe in his voice. "Brendon, are. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Brendon manages. His heart is beating in his ears, a dull pulsing thud as frantic and insistent as a drum roll, and he kind of wonders how there's any blood left anywhere near his head. "Perfect. Hurry the fuck up." His hands are splayed out on the wall, where he caught himself, and he thinks about taking one away and using it to jerk himself off, but really, he kind of needs the balance right now.

Really, really needs it, because his knees do something weird when there's pressure against his ass, something pressing then _pushing,_ and oh fuck, god.

He pushes back, and it's not Jon's dick, okay, it's not thick enough, and it shouldn't be even hotter but at the thought of Jon's blunt fingers in him, slick with spit, Brendon leans his forehead against the wall and shudders, tremors running along the taut muscles in his arms. He moans, broken and half-muffled.

"Fuck," Jon says behind him, voice thin and desperate, and then that's two fingers, right, and it's so good but Brendon is actually going to throw Jon down and take things out of his hands - ha, his _hands_ \- if he takes one second longer about fucking him properly. He's stretched himself before; at first, just for the stimulation when he was jerking off, just a little, but the more he's been thinking about this lately, the more he's been doing it, two fingers, three, instead of just one. He refuses even in his head to call it practicing, because that's just pathetic.

"Please," he breathes, and then they're gone. It sucks, but then the pressure's back and better, and Brendon kind of wishes he could be watching this from somewhere off to the side, with the option of slow-motion and replay. In a way, though, shutting his eyes and just _feeling it_ is better. He can just focus on the slick slide of Jon's cock as it pushes into him, spreading his legs apart a little further, arching his back, trying to take it in as deep as it'll go, until he can feel Jon's hips against his ass.

It hurts, he thinks, a little incredulously. Not much; nothing he can't handle. He breathes hard and waits for it to get better, and after a little while, it does. It's a weird feeling, uncomfortable and over-full and at the same time, somehow, he's still hard, maybe even harder. Brendon feels so fucking accomplished for a second, because he wanted this and he got it.

He can feel Jon breathing hot and ragged against the back of his neck. "This - god, _Brendon_ ," Jon says. "I just. Fuck, god."

"Mmm," Brendon agrees, then moves his hips tentatively. It's really fucking tight, wow. The slight movement making him stretch in a way that's a little painful again and weird and somehow still, still, really fucking awesome. "Dude, I. You can move, if you want. Just, uh. Carefully." He's half-laughing when he says that, under his breath, and he's not even sure why that's so funny.

"I think I can do that," Jon says from behind him. He sounds a little shaky, too. "I might come, though."

"Don't you fucking dare come yet," Brendon says. "That would be, like - like getting a lump of coal in your stocking Christmas morning. I have faith in you, Jon Walker." He can feel sweat beading on his scalp and on his face, has to blink it out of his eyes, knows he's as red in the face as when he's on stage.

"You did not just compare me to Santa Claus," Jon says incredulously, but then he starts to move, very slow and careful and then, after a few minutes, much less measured, jerky and desperate.

And, like. Brendon should be stoic, right? He shouldn't embarrass himself too much, because while this is Jon, it's also - _Jon_. Jon, one of his best friends, and someone who he still doesn't want to embarrass himself in front of too much, because Jon is just – cool. But this is weird in a good way, and he presses his forehead against the smooth paint and brings one hand down to his dick, and yeah, okay. It's weird and it's somehow still the best thing ever, even the burn and the way it's hard for him to breathe properly right now. Maybe especially the burn. He likes feeling it, and it's more – it's smoother now, easier, a sliding and it's strange to be feeling this, the wrong way around. Jon's pretty up there on the list of awesome things about this, about getting fucked, and yet Brendon still shouldn't embarrass himself in front of him if he can at all help it.

Brendon knows this logically, but it's kind of hard to be logical with Jon Walker riding your ass. He gives up almost as soon as he comes to this conclusion, rolls his hips back and back and back, finally lets himself moan, loud and unbound and with no actual care for what he could be saying, anything, as long as Jon keeps doing that. His forehead bangs a little against the wall, and he breathes in sharp every time Jon pulls back, breathes out when he pushes in.

It doesn't really take all that long, in literal, standard time, but that's not what Brendon's going by, anyway. As far as he's concerned, he lasts an incredible amount of time, comparatively, given the sort of stimulus he has to deal with.

He comes, hard and wrenching, before Jon, and leans against the wall feeling limp and wrung and riding out the last of Jon's quickening thrusts. He feels kind of raw; not in the painful way, but stripped open, oversensitive. Jon shudders when he comes, gasping something low and unravelling that Brendon can't make out properly. He can feel the muscles trembling in Jon's thighs.

They stand frozen like that for a few seconds, a little while, Jon's face pressed into Brendon's back, damp with exertion. Brendon's cold everywhere sweat is drying on his skin, and too hot everywhere Jon's stuck to him, and really fucking tired, the weariness of the show tonight as well as everything else suddenly making itself felt.

It feels incredible.

"Okay," Jon says finally, when Brendon's breathing has slowed a little, and peels himself away. It feels weird when he does. Brendon's not sure if he's relieved or not. He lets the wall hold him up for a few seconds longer, eyes shut, and then he's free to turn around, look at Jon.

He hasn't seen his face since before it started, and he's not sure what he's looking for, but. "Hey," he says brightly, and laughs again because of how stupid that sounds.

"Hey," Jon says, looking down. He looks kind of at a loss, and then he transfers his attention to the floor and the wreckage of their gear, stuff still tossed all over the floor from when he was hunting frantically for the condoms. He wanders among the flotsam, poking things with his feet, and finally he finds whatever he's looking for, a fresh pair of boxers, and steps into them, head down. His mouth looks weird, sort of stiff, jaw clenched.

He looks tired, too. Brendon gets that. He also looks fucked out, which Brendon finds kind of impossibly, unimaginably hot.

"You wanna shower?" Brendon asks him. "I don't know about you, but I could totally use one right now."

"Nah," Jon says, lifting his head and smiling briefly at Brendon. "I seriously. I seriously couldn't stand up any longer right now, dude."

"I know," Brendon agrees easily, because well, he does. He wants a shower, needs one, but if he gets under that hot, relaxing water he's just going to fall over and go comatose. He could avoid that, maybe, if Jon was willing to shower _with_ him, but no dice. "Like cow tipping, right? You fall asleep standing up, and then it's 'hey, timber!'"

"That sentence makes sense in your brain?" Jon asks, then shakes his head.

"I think it made more sense in my brain than it did in my mouth," Brendon admits. "Shut up, I think it's an achievement that I can even string sentences together right now." He can't help the stupid grin that spreads over his face at that, a broad beaming grin of the smuggest satisfaction, and man. He can still feel it, and he'll probably be feeling it, a little bit, tomorrow. There are sore places on his neck and shoulders that he doesn't even remember getting, and his forehead's a little tender from banging against the wall, even so slightly.

Jon's not looking at him so he misses the smile, busy trying to stuff his clothes and things back into his duffel.

"Anyway," Brendon says, a little awkward. "Shower. I need one. I won't be long."

"Fine," Jon says, still not looking at him, sorting through his strewn possessions.

There's a bruise blooming purple on the meat of Jon's shoulder, where Brendon bit him. He touches it softly with his fingertip when he walks past towards the bathroom, not sure whether to apologise or not, but the way Jon shivers and bites his lip is probably a good sign. Brendon says "Sorry," anyway, and tries not to worry when Jon shrugs, brushing the touch away.

"I'm cool," he says. "Beat, though."

"Yeah, no kidding," Brendon agrees. "That was fun."

"Yeah?" The glance Jon sends upwards is quick and oddly hesitant at the same time, light catching on his lashes and casting spiked shadows down his cheeks until they disappear into his stubble.

"Yeah."

Brendon's a past master at quick showers, and he scrubs himself down briskly, squeezing hotel liquid hotel shower soap out of its little plastic sachet. It seems to be a law that hotel soap either comes liquid in these ridiculous pint-sized packets that are never quite enough, or in tiny hard blocks, wrapped in paper, which refuse to lather. But hey, it's a shower, it's soap, he's on tour and living out of a bus (even if said bus comes with an LCD screen TV, its own small shower, a tall glass bong; all the basic homely amenities), he's not going to complain if it's not Lush Sonic Death Monkey shower gel, although admittedly that'd be pretty sweet.

Sometimes he thinks his brain babbles defensively too. White noise is better than thinking properly right now.

He stands under the spray for a couple of extra minutes, letting water beat against his skull and shoulders, his upturned face and closed eyes.

Cold hits him as soon he turns the shower off, even though the bathroom air is thick and heavy with steam and the mirror's frosted over, white and opaque. The towel he wraps around his hips doesn't do much to warm him up, and he rubs a circle clear on the glass with the corner of it and looks himself in the eye for a few minutes while he's brushing his teeth. He looks the same as ever. He looks tired.

He shuts the bathroom door behind him quietly when he's done, is quieter still walking over to his bag and finding his boxers, pulling them on. He scrubs at his wet hair with the towel one more time, then tosses it on the floor; looks over, finally, at the other side of the room.

Jon's taken the bed on the left, and for a second Brendon's not sure whether he's asleep or awake, and then he sees his head move, a little.

"Hey," Jon says. "All clean and freshly scrubbed?"

"I smell delicious," Brendon agrees. "Well, no. I smell like hotel soap. Whatever, it's still an improvement. I'm calling it a win." He's standing there in the space between their beds, no-man's-land, and not sure what he even wants, needs, to say. Babbling about hotel soap isn't really cutting it.

Jon doesn't say anything else, either, but he pulls the covers down, baring a slice of mattress. His eyebrows rise fractionally – Jon's never mastered the subtle art of moving just the one eyebrow, an art in which Brendon himself is, naturally, a master - and Brendon takes that as an invitation.

He crawls into the bed; it's not that large, bigger than the average twin bed but not as large as a standard double, and he can feel Jon crowded up against his back, breathing warm on the back of his neck.

"Okay?"

"Turn out the light," Brendon mumbles. He fucking loves hotel rooms and the way they put light switches in easy reach on the bedstead.

Jon reaches out over him to switch off the light. He doesn't pull his arm back all the way it came; he leaves it draped over Brendon's waist, curling in. It's kind of the same sort of move as a teenage guy yawning in a movie theatre and casually slinging his arm over his girlfriend's shoulders. It makes Brendon feel better about this than he has since they stopped fucking.

He breathes quietly into the dark. It's cool against his eyelids.

"Are you okay?" Jon asks softly.

" _Duh_ , Jonathan Jacob Walker," Brendon says. He's too tired to roll his eyes.

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